


Q is for Qamek

by OtakuElf



Series: YADAA (Yet Another Dragon Age Alphabet) [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Mages (Dragon Age), Mercenaries, Qamek, Qun, Qunari Culture and Customs, Slavery, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time of the future the war of the Mages and Templars is long past.  Now it's the fight of the races of Thedas against the Qunari.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Q is for Qamek

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading.

Cecil, healer and mage, breathed a sigh of relief after the last Qunari fighter was brought down by the brigade. Not many mages felt comfortable around the Qunari. It was widely known that these grey giants had enslaved anyone showing a hint of magic. Cecil had seen their Saarebas, chained, with eyes and mouth sewn shut. None here, thank the Maker. Cecil did not want to think of the carnage that would have created. Saarebas took their place in the Qun as tools, brainwashed to follow the orders of their handlers. Cecil shot a look sideways at his comrade and guard. Oh, Bradbury was not there to guard against him. Not like the templars of old. Granted, Bradbury knew how to cast a hefty smite, and a wonderful cleansing and all that. 

Rather, Cecil’s body, all six plus feet of it, was guarded by Bradbury when he was looking into the Fade. It would be distressing to try to come back from a survey and find oneself murdered. So Bradbury kept watch. Neither was in charge of the other; they shared the same rank, and Bradbury had started the same day as Cecil, so they were equal. Cecil rather liked being part of Holling’s Brigade. It was just him as a mage, and then all the fighters and rogues. They didn’t always understand what he could do, but they were bold enough to ask questions when they did not understand. And nobody seemed to be worried that he would become an abomination. He was Circle-certified, after all. He’d been Harrowed, and maintained a working license from the Kingdom of Ferelden in magery. Of course, he’d had to join two professional organizations. The Mage Union, and a mercenary’s group - The Sellswords Guild. Not that he had a sword. Or a knife even. Other than his eating utensil. If he wanted something cut he borrowed one of Bradbury’s large collection.

Cecil was not very proficient with aggressive spells. A good healer and scryer, he had been hired originally to help these mercenaries check out precious loot, ensuring that none of the fighters - the sellswords, spears, archers and all - ended up with a cursed bit of treasure. Cecil earned his money too, because at times there most certainly were evil and frightening things housed in golden treasure. They’d kept him on when he proved himself in the middle of an ambush, sending out healing, casting strengthening spells, and warning of magic being used against the brigade.

Templar-trained, Bradbury’s smites and cleanses were useful against some of the spectres and revenants that they found from time to time. Cecil did not expect to find any of those here, though. This was a Qunari settlement, and that meant an absence of magic in any form if at all possible.

Qunari, surprisingly enough, did not even use magic to heal. Mages were solely a weapon for the followers of the Qun, one that was dumb and not allowed a mind of their own. All Saarebas were attack casters. Elemental spells were the firepower of choice. To be used solely against those not of the Qun. Spells of any kind were not cast upon the Qunari. Cecil knew what happened to anyone with a touch of magic that ran counter to that use, healers or diviners. They were either given Qamek, or murdered.

Qamek frightened Cecil more than the giant fanatics with the huge swords. The worst the grunts could do was take your head off - kill a man. Qamek turned your brain to pudding. Taking all will away. Tranquility, without even the option of becoming a potions master or brewer. There was no intellect left to those who had been dosed with qamek. Just a body that followed instructions from a Qunari master. Heavy labor for the rest of your life. Like undead without the initiative.

Cecil looked down at Bradbury and asked, “Well, where do you think we should go next?”

Bradbury stuck her sword and shield in the soft sandy dirt and dragged her steel kettle pot of a helmet off. “I love how I can hear your voice even when I have this helmet on. Sort of basso profundo.”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve said. The captain didn’t tell us to remain in one place. What should we do next, Bianca? Combat situation - you get to choose.”

“Well,” Bianca said thoughtfully, “why don’t we start making sure those farm sheds are clear? I’ll stand at the ready, and you can open the doors and jump back like a scared cat.” Bianca Bradbury had a really lovely contralto herself.

“Not a scared cat,” grumbled Cecil as they tramped across the field. It was empty of people, but full of some form of leafy plant that stood about half of Cecil’s six feet, four inches tall. Bradbury, at five feet, four inches, was mostly lost in them. 

“What is this stuff?” Bradbury should have known. She grew up on a farm.

“No idea,” came cheerfully. “It’s edible, I think.”

Cecil watched Bradbury’s helmeted head and armored shoulders pushing along above the green like a ship sailing through the sea. Just the top of her shield and the point of her long sword were obvious. Bianca kept her dark red hair short - not cropped, but several inches long.

Cecil grew his hair long and braided it down his back. The boring brown was clipped so he would not sit on the end of the braid. Bradbury asked him why he didn’t keep it cut short like her, or cropped. Cecil hadn’t admitted that his hair curled. The curls were tight, large ringlets. Keeping his hair long meant that the weight of his locks straightened them out.

Maker only knew what jokes he’d hear about his curls. He already got teased about the long eyelashes he’d inherited into the bargain. If he cropped the hair, then he’d forget about getting it cut, and then the curls would return. 

And then Cecil told himself, “This is why you need Bradbury with you. Thought tangents could get me killed.”

“You are muttering to yourself again,” Bradbury pointed out. How she could hear, let alone see, with that metal surrounding her head and the visor over her face, Cecil had no idea.

Their Captain, Ser Holling, had dressed Cecil in guard accoutrements once. The mage had overbalanced and fallen. Itchy wool overall, canvas padding filled with woollen batting, and then the metal on top. Then they’d handed Cecil Bradbury’s sword and shield.

Bradbury had described it as “like watching a tree fall. All stiff and rigid-like.”

How Bradbury stood it all, the weight, the heat, Cecil had no idea. Cecil was pleased to keep his robes - cotton or soft, treated wool. Natural fibres did not conflict with spell casting. Even his boots were made with leather from an animal that had died naturally.

Bradbury enjoyed pointing out that he’d no proof of that last. Her own dragonhide boots (under the steel of the armor) were most certainly taken by force. There were no dragon farms anywhere on Thedas, allowing tame dragons to pass on of old age. She’d happily gone on to argue that Cecil quite liked a nice slice of mutton off the joint. Had he really thought that the sheep had died of old age? If it had, the meat would be tough or diseased.

Cecil happily let Bradbury win the small victories.

“Oy!” came from his small companion. “You present?”

“Yes, ser, Bianca.” Cecil looked for anything present other than the plants in the field or the thatched shacks along the hedge row, but there was nothing. He could hear the sounds of the rest of the troupe clearing up the remnants of the Qunari citizens off to the other side of the village. That noise all seemed to be concentrated at the docks, riverside.

Looking over the field, Cecil could see the lines of their passage through the sea of green plants. Back across to the edge of the field, the marks had disappeared. 

“Oy!” Bradbury said again. “Something in the shack is moving.”

Cecil’s head whipped around to examine the grey, weather-worn wooden structure. No windows, and the building was capped by bound bundles of straw. “Donkey? No? Alright.” Stepping forward, he lifted the latch and threw the door to the side. 

The interior was filled with sacks hanging from the rafters. No, not sacks. Hammocks filled with bodies. Three ranks of bodies, counting the row of them on the floor. They did not move, at least not to get out of the hammocks or roll over to look at the pair of them standing in the doorway. There were people in there. Waiting. For instructions.

The smell of unwashed living bodies flowed through the doorway to disperse in the air around Cecil and Bradbury. “Why aren’t they moving? Are they afraid of us?” Bradbury asked.

Sighing Cecil raised his voice, “Everybody out of the hut!” Then he stepped back and waited. Nothing.

“Were you expecting that to work?” Bradbury smirked.

“Perhaps not,” Cecil mumbled. Trying again, he spoke in his extremely limited Qunlat, “ _Viddath-bas_ ” and a general command he thought meant “come here”. Maker, Cecil was not even certain he had the wording correct, let alone the pronunciation. Mages were expected to learn many languages. Qunlat was not popular, and Cecil had learned it on a dare.

There was movement; slow, but they were exiting the hut. It was amazing how many had fit into that tiny space. Like a child’s puzzle. Humans, elves, half-elves, and kossith dressed in plain tunics, and looking straight ahead with vacant eyes. Men and women, no one that looked like they were under the age of consent. They were all dressed alike with no variance for gender. Cecil pointed. He couldn’t do more than pidgin Qunlat, and didn’t trust that he’d not give an order he’d regret. There were twenty beings in all, with four kossith and a very large human on the floor, the rest clambering out of the hammocks.

Bradbury watched carefully, her sword and shield ready. When they had the bunch in a group, it was apparent that nothing but standing was going to be accomplished if they weren’t able to communicate what they wanted. Cecil resorted to physically taking each one by the arm and moving them into a moderately straight line.

He and Bradbury looked at the people standing in the line. They didn’t exactly look back - more off into space, waiting.

“What did you say to them? In the Qunlat?” Bradbury asked.

“I called them Viddath-bas. Bas is ‘thing’, I think. A mage is _Saarebas_ , which means ‘dangerous thing’. No, stop laughing, I’m serious.”

Bradbury snickered. “Well, come on, Dangerous Thing. Ask them if there are any soldiers around. Or their priests.”

Cecil tried his best. The pack of viddath-bas stared at him. They reminded him of the sheep back home. Finally, he said, “Speak, the Void take you! Can you say nothing?”

“Apparently not,” Bradbury sighed. “That one on the end opened his mouth, but nothing came out.”

“Well, what do we do with them?” Cecil was getting the heebie-jeebies, much like when he was around the Tranquil. 

“Take them into town, I guess. Turn them over to the Captain. Do you think they’ve eaten anything this morning?” Bradbury came from a farming family as well. “They were just lying there. Waiting. That shack smells awful and so do they. Do you think we need to tell them to take a piss?”

Oh, well, that Cecil knew. One always does learn the curse words in any language first. Instructions given, the viddath-bas walked to the hedgerow and proceeded to relieve themselves with no modesty or shame whatsoever. 

Once they had all completed that assigned task, Cecil drew them all back into a line and directed that line to “follow.”

Captain Holling was consulting with his lieutenants in the village square. Sergeant Varc intercepted Cecil and Bradbury, which was just fine by them. “What in the Void is this?” Varc barked.

“Slaves,” Bradbury said before Cecil could give the sergeant the correct designation.

Varc gave each one in the line a look over. “They look half-witted. Are they half-witted, Bradbury?”

“Drugged, sergeant,” Cecil offered.

“They drug their slaves? What, to keep them from running off?” Varc asked.

“Well,” Cecil started, “yes. Because these are the ones they couldn’t convert to the Qun. If you don’t convert and mean it, they drug you until you’re sort of like a sheep.”

“Sheep have more mind than these do, Sergeant,” Bradbury put in. “We had to tell them to take a leak when we got them out of their beds.”

The sergeant rubbed the bridge of his nose with calloused fingers. “Alright. Put them with the others in the corral at the end of town.”

That didn’t work. The others, as the sergeant had called them, wanted nothing to do with the viddath-bas. Granted, they smelled bad. Bradbury had wondered aloud if Cecil gave them the command to walk into the river, would they do it and drown rather than wash?

The woman who was making the greatest commotion about it all turned and looked at the group. She shouted something, and presently an older elf came forward. She waved for him to speak to Bradbury. A translator, though his trade was rusty. “They must be kept separately.” He was avoiding Cecil’s eye and speaking directly to Bradbury.

“Why?” Cecil asked, not bothering to be polite.

White appeared at the edges of the elf’s eyes as he looked at the mage, and then back at Bradbury. “Why?” asked Bradbury as well, more to see what would happen.

“When their time for treatment comes, they must be given exposure to the qamek. Otherwise they will leave the pathway. It will be dangerous.”

“Do you have a name?” Bradbury asked after a moment. 

“You may call me viddathari.” It was said simply.

“Viddathari?” Cecil said in surprise. “That’s the word for convert. Don’t you have a name?”

That brought about another frightened-horse look from the elf. “Tell your thing to be silent. It will contaminate me.”

Bradbury’s use of invective was creative and vile. Cecil shook her shoulder. “It’s alright. I don’t care what these animals think of me.” His voice shook, though.

The fighter shouted the words she had heard him use for instruction to the viddath-bas and waved her sword toward the corral. The female who had called for a translator shouted again, and the qunari moved to form a barrier against the viddath-bas’s entry into the corral.

“What’s going on here?” Sergeant Varc shouted from behind them.

“They’re afraid of their own slaves. Won’t let them into the corral. They might wake up and contaminate them.” Bradbury sounded more offended than Cecil had ever heard before.

“Yes,” the viddethari said, “this is not a good thing. Their place in the Qun is in the field. They are animals, not thinking beings.”

“Shut it.” Bradbury glared at the elf, then at the woman standing behind and listening to it all. “Before I use my mage on you.”

“Bradbury,” barked the sergeant, “that is enough of that.”

It was obvious which of the huddle of Qunari in the corral understood Trade, because their glances of fear at Cecil were quite clear.

Cecil made a note in his head of those. He’d let the sergeant know later. Looking over at the members of their troop guarding the corral, he thought perhaps he would not need to. Arn, a blond Avvar taller even than Cecil, gave the mage a wink before straightening his face.

The woman spoke - the elf addressed her by the title Tamassran - and then the elf turned to the Brigade members and said, “The viddath-bas may enter. Better for them to be protected in here from the basra, than for your Basvaarad to allow the Saarebas to corrupt them, and by that extent, the Qun.”

Cecil knew the Tamassran understood Trade. She had reacted to Bradbury’s threat. Wasn’t a Tamassran a teacher? What kind of teacher would be like that?

Cecil asked Bradbury, “How do you know that none of your slaves, your viddath-bas, are not mages?”

Bradbury had not needed to translate from “mage” to Tradespeak. The Tamassran spoke quickly and angrily to the elf, who said, “Such as are not of use to the Arvaarad, are put to use in the fields. There is nothing wasted in the Qun. Saarebas are not given qamek.”

It took a moment for the meaning to parse through Cecil’s mind. When it did, he gagged, to the amusement of the Tamassran, Maker drag her screaming to the Void. 

“What?” Bradbury asked him quietly, turned so that the Qunari could not see them speak. “What does that mean?”

“Fertilizer,” Cecil said angrily, explaining, “They kill those mages who don’t turn, and bury them under the fields for the plants to eat.”

Bradbury dragged him off. Not that Cecil was resisting at all. They found some of their own that needed healing. Cecil was very aware that Bradbury had told the others what the Tamassran had said. There was not a moment after, that Cecil was alone while they were in Qunari territory. If nothing else, it proved to him that he was valued. By his own people, if not the invaders.

**Author's Note:**

> I have always found the idea of qamek odious. Not a fan of the Qun.
> 
> Bianca Bradbury was a children’s fiction writer, and her book _Two On An Island_ is an adventure that I’d recommend to everyone. I read that before I read _Robinson Crusoe_ or _Swiss Family Robinson_.


End file.
